Contraband
by joaquinphoenix
Summary: A recent grad with a BA in Useless, broke and in debt Bella can't seem to get a job anywhere. When Rosalie gives her a temp position at the gossip mag Contraband, her chance meeting with ultra-elusive actor Edward Cullen proves extremely beneficial. Love in LA is precarious when nothing is as it seems.
1. Chapter 1

**EPOV**

* * *

"Cullen!"

I flinch.

That's happened for as long as I can remember. That flinch. Oh, someone's paying attention to me. Oh, someone wants me. Oh, shit. Oh, shit shit shit.

Strung out, it's even worse. I'm a live wire. I need some weed. I need something. Anything.

I just need to forget who I am. Just for a moment.

My cell phone keeps vibrating. _Stop vibrating_. I pull my hair. Am I crazy?

"Cullen!" I flinch again. A hand slaps down on my shoulder. "Why are you out front? TMZ will be here any second if you stay out here."

I shrug.

I'm not so good at the communicating bit. Not ever.

"C'mon, Buddy."

I know him. I know this blonde hair and blue eyes and stylized and leather jacket and thousand-dollar jeans. He knows me, clearly. I can't remember. I can't focus. Hell, I can't even _see_.

My phone vibrates again. I pull it out. The screen is fuzzy.

"Someone's calling you, Buddy."

I don't know why he keeps calling me that.

My hands are shaking. They always shake. I think something's wrong with me. Something's always wrong with me.

I put the phone back in my pocket. It keeps ringing.

"Sit down." He pushes on my shoulders. I want him to stop touching me. "This is Victoria. She's clear. I know how you feel about cameras. I've got it on lock down."

I nod. Swallow. Flashbulbs pop behind my eyes. It's been a rough day. It's been a rough few years.

Victoria leans over the table. Her hair is red like fire, glowing in this dull light. I reach out and touch it. I wonder if it's hot. Instead, it's course and thick and messy. I pull back.

I really don't want to vomit.

"You want some, Baby?" Victoria's lips are as red as her hair, and just as blurry.

I nod.

I inhale and it makes me fly. I'm not me anymore. I'm whoever I want to be.

"Edward. Edward. _Edward_." I blink and blink and blink and blink. "Would you help me get him out of here?" She's speaking to someone else. I don't know how much time has passed. My mouth is dry, filled with cotton. I can't even spit.

"Help," I try to say, and my mouth opens but no words come out.

I blink and blink and blink.

"I need the back entrance. He can't with . . . cameras."

It's Alice.

"Alice." No noise. "Alice." No noise.

"Edward." That's me. She slaps my cheek and I smile. "Up we go."

My arm is over her shoulder. We're walking and walking and walking. It's dark and quiet and then we're on the street and everyone's _screaming_.

"Alice!" My voice is panicked. It cracks.

"We're almost there." Soothing.

"Alice."

"Almost there."

She says it again and again and again until she pushes me into the back of the car and the door closes and _silence_. I lean my head against the cool, dark glass. My eyes close.

"I'm sorry, Alice." I say.

She sighs. I barely hear it.

"You always are."


	2. Chapter 2

**BPOV**

* * *

". . . Cullen spotted for the first time in _weeks _stumbling out the back of . . . over the shoulder of his publicist . . . sources say this last movie will be his last . . ."

The TV blares but I hardly hear it. I stuff the pillow over my head.

"Isabella Swan if you don't get the _fuck _off my couch I will fart in your face."

Emmett McCarty's boisterous voice boomed over all other noise in the living room.

Noises before: the television, the radio, and the muted honk of car horns through the living room window.

Noises after: the television, the radio, the muted honk of car horns through the living room window, and Emmett McCarty.

"I'm filling out applications. Jesus."

Current status of living room table: Half-empty coffee mug, cold. iPhone 4S, cracked. Pile of coffee shop and restaurant application forms, blank.

"I can see you're working really hard," he mutters, walking into the room and straightening the tie around his neck. When exactly Emmett McCarty became such a tight ass, I can't pinpoint. Before college he was just like me: somewhat gifted, somewhat driven, and somewhat stoned. Now he's just like the rest of them.

And I can't quite seem to catch up.

Four years of higher education seems to have prepared me for little to nothing in the real world.

Current visible pros of higher education: Dad seems proud, a framed diploma, a serious of drunken semi-sweet hookups with hipsterized Tom Waits enthusiasts.

Current visible cons of higher education: no money, no place to live, no job.

Hmm.

Emmett's disgustingly practical business administration major seemed laughable to me during our years at the University of Washington. After all, while he was spending his nights learning the various mathematical formulas associated with accounting for big business, I was reading Kerouac and Kinney and Kipling. When he was spending his summers interning in some cubicle, I was working part time at Starbucks and writing moody poetry in my backyard.

These are hard times for dreamers.

"At least fill them out," Emmett snaps, slamming the door behind him.

I can't blame him for being mad. Not now, anyway. Not after I've spent almost two full months mooching off of him, dirtying his living room and making his couch my permanent homestead.

I just couldn't go back to Forks.

I just couldn't admit that defeat.

I would not be another college grad going back to live with their parents after spending four years of borrowed money only to get a job waiting tables or maybe one as a receptionist for the local dentist. (If I'm lucky.)

I will use this English degree. For . . . something.

I was never one of those kids who knew what I wanted to be straight away. How do you decide that, anyway? One day you just sit down and say this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to spend every day, for the majority of the day, doing this. I want to think about this and have it motivate me and have it fulfill me.

It all just seems so monumentous. Too monumentous.

Especially for me. Hell, I can barely decide what to eat for lunch.

And now I'm here, sleeping on Emmett McCarty's couch in a shitty apartment somewhere just outside of Los Angeles.

I have no goals, no hopes, no job, no prospects, and no money.

And if there's one thing I've noticed, the world's not fucking waiting for me to start getting some.


	3. Chapter 3

**EPOV**

* * *

_Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit._

"Edward?"

I jump up in my chair, the internal mantra broken by the smack of my thigh hitting the bottom of the table. Flinch, flinch, flinch.

"Shit," I curse, rubbing the spot.

"Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean to—sorry. You have five minute." The mousy intern with the lanyard speaks in stilted sentences. She peeks her head just barely through the door, her hands clenched firmly on the bottom of her shirt. Her cheeks are flushed red as fire, her hair pulled back in a tight bun.

"Thanks," I say to the table.

I rest my elbows on the table and dig my hands into my hair, cradling my head. Alice will be mad. She just approved the stylist's final product. I go back to my mantra.

_Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit._

My cell phone vibrates on the table. The screen lights up: Alice.

"Where the f-fuck are you?"

"Calm down. I'm almost there." Alice's voice is quick and sharp. I can hear her breathing heavily into the phone. "I got the producers to agree to an expansion. We've got five extra minutes."

I swallow.

"Okay."

"You can do this," she says. "Hold on."

The phone goes silent just as the door to my holding pen opens.

"Get your hands out of your hair!" she cries.

They drop.

"It's going to be fine," she says, pulling up a chair next to mine. The pale cream color of the chair mimics the room. It's designed to be neutral, yet tasteful. I've been in a thousand of these cream-colored rooms.

"I d-d-didn't agree to this."

I swallow again. I know it's bad when the stutter acts up. Alice knows it, too. Her eyes close.

I'm too damn sober.

"I know. We fired your entertainment lawyer yesterday."

"You fired Paul?!" My voice breaks two octaves.

"Edward, he fucked up! You wouldn't even need to be here right now if it weren't for him."

She digs in her purse—endless, that purse—and pulls out the small bottle that has kept me bordering on sane for these last two years.

"I don't want them," I say. I refuse to be another half-human dependent on a synthetic pills just to be normal. I refuse.

"Edward . . ."

"No."

The door opens again.

"One minute," the intern says. She looks like I feel: about to explode.

"Alright, let's go." Alice stands. I blink rapidly.

_Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit._

The intern leads us past the back of the set. Past the control room. Right to the edge. I don't peek out. I hear the crowd's tittering laugh to whatever the host just said.

_Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit._

"It'll be fine," Alice says. "Just recite your answers like the publicist said."

"I don't think I c-can do this, Alice." My heart is going to beat right out of my chest, I swear it. I can feel it against my ribcage. It's trying to get out.

"It'll be fine," she repeats.

_Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit. Breathe. Don't vomit._

The host's booming voice sounds loud and clear.

"Up next, please welcome our exclusive interview with the elusive Edward Cullen!"

I don't move.

"Go, Edward."

I'm frozen.

"_Go_, Edward."

I see the host's smile falter, just a bit.

"Go!"

Alice pushes my back, breaking me from the trance. I stumble. I'm in view now.

The crowd roars. I blink. The host smiles. I blink. The crowd yells. I blink.

And then I run.


	4. Chapter 4

**BPOV**

* * *

"When are you going to tell her she has to go?"

I press my face into the decorative pillow. It's covered in sequins. A few of them worm their way into my mouth. Rose and Emmett continue to talk just a few feet away, hardly muffled by the kitchen door. They assume I'm asleep, I'm sure.

"Look, she can't keep living here. She's here all the time. I barely get any alone time with my man anymore." Her voice gets all breathy at the end. I imagine her fingers worming their way beneath his pinstripe suit.

"I know, Babe. But I can't just kick her out. She's my friend and all that."

Rose sighs dramatically.

"She's been here for ages now. I thought we were going to move in together . . ."

"We are, baby . . ."

I can't hear anymore. I throw the blanket aside and stand up.

Current status of my clothes: Pajamas, rumpled. Hair, rumpled. Face, sequin imprints.

"Bella," Rose says when I push open the door to the kitchen, all feigned surprised. Emmett looks uncomfortable. He scratches the back of his neck.

"Rose," I greet.

She looks impeccable, as always.

Current status of Rosalie: Hair, shiny. Eyes, shiny. Smile, shiny. Pressed pencil skirt and blazer, gray. Blouse, floral print. Nail polish, unchipped.

"How's the job hunt going?" She braces her hand on her hip, French manicure nearly impeccable.

"It's going," I smile back.

Current status of the relationship between Rose and I: sickly sweet, bordering on vomit-enducing. Hostile, just under the surface. Emmett is a bumper.

The amount of respect I have for Rosalie Hale is bordering on zero. She is the antithesis of everything that I stand for as an English major. As chief editor of one of LA's skeeviest gossip magazines, _Contraband_, Rosalie spends most of her time trolling PerezHilton and paying off paparazzi.

Her co-workers know her as ruthless and unforgiving. I know her as the bitch that stole one of my best friends.

"Any offers?" she asks. "Interviews? Calls?"

"Not yet."

She smirks. I wonder if my failure secretly delights her.

"C'mon, Rose . . ." Emmett groans.

"No, I'm wondering for a reason. _Contraband _is starting up this new thing and I wanted to see if you'd consider working for it, it's—"

"No." I don't let her finish. She scowls.

"C'mon, Bell. It's not exactly like you have many other options," Emmett interjects.

"Damn, thanks for having my back, Em."

He shrugs.

"Just listen, would you?" she snaps. The claws come out. "We're starting an online blog-formatted site that's based off of our main site. Anyone in LA with a suitable lead can submit information about a celebrity. It'll go through a screening process back at _Contraband__**, **_and then it'll be submitted to the site under a penname. We'll be paying for submissions."

"You're creating an army of paparazzi. Out of everyone." I conclude.

"Jeez, Bella. Don't need to be so dramatic." She rolls her eyes.

"Also, how is any of that credible? Under a penname?"

She raises her eyebrow.

"Credible? Have you _ever _read the _National Enquirer_?" she asks. "We're trying to make money here, Bella. We're not the fucking national news."

"Wow."

"Oh, don't act all surprised. We need a few people to test the system on. We'll pay you a weekly salary because we're in beta. It's not much, but it might get you an apartment that's not Emmett's. Well, with a few roommates anyway."

She says the last of it with a bite.

"I'll consider it."

"How about you consider it right now or we'll get someone else."

"Fine, I'll do it."

"Great." Her grin is toothy, large and unbearable. "Welcome to _Contraband_."


	5. Chapter 5

**EPOV**

* * *

"Edward, would you at least get up off the couch?"

"No," I moan, rolling deeper into the leather cushions.

"Oh, stop being sorry for yourself. No one cares anymore." Alice's voice floats toward me from the kitchen. Her residence in my house has bordered on constant ever since-shit.

"I care."

"So, you ran out? Your publicity team cleaned it up. The movie's getting great reviews. Leno sent a get well soon basket, for God's sake." Her voice gets closer. I feel the couch sink where she sits down by my legs. Her hand rests atop my knee.

"Hmph," I mumble into the pillow.

"Guess what else," she says, teasing.

"What."

"I said, guess!"

"Go away."

"Fine, grumpy pants. I got you out of the red carpet walk."

I shoot up on the couch.

"What? How?"

"I knew that would get my big brother up." She pinches her nose. "Also, you really need to shower."

"How?" I ask again.

"I have my ways," she says elusively, standing up and smoothing out her pencil skirt. Alice does an impeccable job of being exactly the opposite of me. Always completely put together and prepared, she does at least three times the amount of work that any of my publicists do, while actually keeping my best interests at heart.

She plucks a half-smoked joint from the table and wrinkles her nose.

"Really?" Both hands on her hips.

I shrug.

It's better than the other option. It's better than being crazy.

"You've been wearing these clothes for three days. I'm going to stop doing shit for you if you're just going to be a useless stoner."

"Sorry." My cheeks are hot. I disappoint her.

"Good lord, Edward. You need to get laid."

"Alice," I snap. She rolls her eyes.

"Shower. Now."

Never one to argue, I trudge from the couch to the closest bathroom. My bare feet against the cool marble causes a chill up my spine. I shake and stumble and stare at myself in the mirror. Two days tired, sunken eyes and greasy hair and tangled lashes. My shirt smells of weed and my beard is growing in too thick.

I can't see myself anymore. But that happened years ago.

I turn the water as cold as it goes. I stand in there until my toes go numb, until my lips turn blue. I scrub myself with soap until I'm red and itchy, until every part of me feels washed away down the drain.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I stick my hand in the butt pocket of my discarded jeans. At the bottom sits a fresh blunt and lighter. I pull them out and light up, perched on the edge of the counter.

Inhale. Hold. I feel my body warm and relax. Unwound.

I'm lit by the time Alice pounds on the door.

"Edward! Out here now!"

I feel myself tighten up, locking back into who I'm supposed to be.

"What's wrong?" I ask through the door.

"Another magazine. I swear to fucking God I'm going to sue this time."

I extinguish the blunt against the counter and stick it back into my jeans. I push the door open a crack.

"Which magazine?"

Alice sniffs.

"Edward Anthony Cullen are you seriously smoking in the bathroom?"

"Which magazine?" I ask again.

She scowls.

"_Contraband_."


	6. Chapter 6

**BPOV**

* * *

"_Contraband_? Jessica loves that magazine, I'm pretty sure. You should talk to her about it," Angela says.

She sips her espresso delicately, one pinky finger up. Starbucks in most places is pretty crowded, but a Starbucks in downtown LA deserves its own zip code. There are so many people brushing haphazardly past us I can barely even think. None of it seems to affect Angela, though.

Meanwhile, the cacophony of voices in my head makes me want to explode.

"Bella?"

"Sorry," I say. The woman to the left of us, hair bleached white, talks obnoxiously on her bedazzled cell phone. Her fake breasts seem to defy gravity within her perfectly weathered wife beater. I stare, fascinated.

"Do you want me to text her for you?"

"No, that's fine. I can call her."

"How's the job hunt going?"

I groan, fingers to temples. It's everyone's favorite question.

Current status of Angela's life: Engaged to a wonderful man. Steadily moving up the ladder in a large PR firm. Living comfortably on the outskirts of LA. Two small dogs.

Current status of my life: Emmett's couch.

"It's going," I grimace.

She smiles back, always understanding.

"Do you want to work in journalism or something? I mean, Rose's offer might even show you what you want to do. You did get a degree in English, after all. A lot of people end up writing for magazines and stuff like that," she says soothingly.

"I don't know. I never really considered it. Plus, I don't think _Contraband _is really considered journalism. It's just useless celebrity gossip."

"Hey, people buy that stuff."

"People like Jessica."

She laughs.

"Yes, well, Jessica is a human."

"Unfortunately."

"Bella!" Angela admonishes, averting her eyes as if one of Jessica was somewhere inside the Starbucks. In reality, Jessica was halfway across the country working as some junior level executive in God know's where.

"I don't know, Ang. It just seems so . . . bad."

"Just give it a shot. And don't do anything you feel is wrong, of course." She's about to say more, but her phone vibrates angrily. It skids across the table. She snatches it up right before it drops to the ground.

"Hello?" she says into the phone. "Work call. I have to take it. Sorry!" she mouths just for me. It's the kind of thing I've only ever seen in movies. I smile half-heartedly and stir the sad looking parfait in front of me.

"I'm just gonna go," I whisper, feeling intrusive.

She covers the receiver with her hand.

"Oh, no. Bella, are you sure?"

Angela Weber: too polite to function.

"I'm positive. Have a great rest of your day at work!"

The first person I run into back at Emmett's apartment is (of course) Rosalie. She's wearing her usual grey pencil skirt and blazer combination, paired with the pastel blouse the shows just the right amount of cleavage before slutty.

"There you are," she yells.

"Were we supposed to meet up?"

"I told Emmett to tell you . . . whatever. I'm just giving you a quick rundown of where to look and who to look for when getting stories for _Contraband_'s website. Also, the weekly payments start coming in _after _you get your first story, so don't wait."

My mouth opens to form some sort of response, but I don't seem to have one. I've never been one of those people who openly followed celebrity culture. Sure, I had a few childhood crushes on teenage boy bands, but that was basically the extent of it. Living in Forks, Washington wasn't exactly conducive to the lifestyle. We only had one movie theater, for fuck's sake.

Rose opens up her briefcase and pulls out a thick, unlabeled binder.

"We have an online database for all this but since you're not officially an employee, you don't have access. This is one of the binders we keep for paper backup. Normally I wouldn't do this to keep with the authenticity of having strangers provide the information, but I don't think you would be able to tell a celebrity from your left hand," she explains. When she hands it to me my arms almost buckle. I slam it down on the counter.

"Um . . ."

She rolls her eyes at me and flips it open to the middle.

"We order it from most important, most expensive celebrity to least important. The closer your celebrity is to the front of the book, the more expensive your story or photo is going to be. Of course, this all depends on what's _in _the story or photo as well, but you get the drift. In the back is a list of locations that are celebrity hotspots. Our location managers update it once a month, about."

As she speaks I flip through the pages. It's face after beautiful face. Perfect make-up, perfect hair, perfect clothing. Perfect amount of botox. I frown and flip through faster, until it's all just a blur of trimmed beards and ski-slop noses.

I hit the first page and freeze.

"Who is this?"

"Are you serious?" Rose laughs. "That's Edward Cullen."


	7. Chapter 7

**EPOV**

* * *

"Edward Cullen!"

"Cullen!"

"Are we going to see you at the premiere, Edward?"

"Edward, look over here!"

"Any new women in your life, Edward?"

"To the left! Edward, to the left!"

I hold the jacket up and over my face. I can't see shit. My body is shaking like a leaf. I look at the ground. Alice's stilettos. Bright blue shoes on the dark grey concrete. The large black shoes of my bodyguard, Joel. His hand on my back guides me to the entrance of the restaurant.

All LA "high class" restaurants are the same: new wave and pretentious as fuck. But the best thing they have in common is the fantastically tight security. Though paparazzi constantly mill about on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, none are allowed in the premises.

The moment the door shuts I feel my body deflate.

Shaking arms bring my jacket back down to my side. Alice grabs my hand.

"I need to go to the b-bathroom," I say, swallowing the stutter with a glare.

"Edward, come on. Not now."

"I'll only be five m-m-mmm. Fuck. I'll only be five minutes."

She sighs, resigned.

"Fine. I'll meet you at the table."

I walk through the seating area with shoulders hunched and downcast eyes. I hear some exclamations of recognition but I don't look up to meet back exit to the restaurant is just inside the kitchen, a few feet to the left of the bathrooms. Casually, I push my way through the serving door.

"Hey!" a cook calls, but I'm already out the door before he has a chance to catch up.

The back lot is completely empty save for a few forgotten cardboard boxes. I can hear the highway in the distance, the gentle rumble of cars relaxing me further. I lean my back against the cool brick and sigh.

Alice arranged this dinner months ago. Something about an indie movie director, hardly any funding, roll of a lifetime, etc. Meanwhile I can't even think about meeting the director without wanting to throw up.

It's the same every time. A rocky tumble through pleasantries and small talk until they finally give me my roll and I can actually be whoever they need me to be. Then there's no more questions. Then I can relax.

But, of course, there are always the side questions for Alice.

Examples:

"He doesn't stutter through his lines, does he?"

"He's not going to go on a binge in the middle of production, right?"

"I've heard he does drugs with the PAs . . ."

"Will he even take direction?"

Thinking about going through it all again makes me wound up tight, tight, tight. This time here, this awkward in-between time where I have no character, this time where I have to truly be _me_—it's the worst.

I pull the joint from my pocket, trembling fingers to lips as I struggle just to light it. I slump the moment the smoke hits my lungs. Sweet and spicy and thick and warm. So warm. I'm filled up.

I sink to the pavement and turn my head to the side, eyes closed. Exhale.

The quiet is so dense that I smack my head against the brick when I hear her.

She's just a profile from here; running into my alley on heels an inch too tall. She stumbles and trips, knees falling into a puddle of sewer water.

I watch her. _Get up_, I think. _Get up, get up, get up_.

Her hair falls over her face. My blunt is forgotten, burning away to waste.

She cries.

I can hear it.

She curses.

I can hear that, too. I stand.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuck!" Her elbows hit the water. Hair in tangles, skirt wet.

I walk forward, hesitantly. My heart drums in my chest. She falls back on her knees.

_Don't get too close. Don't do it._

"Are y-you okay?" I call from a few feet away.

She screams and jumps back, landing on her butt.

"Stay away from me." Her voice is shaking and high-pitched. I realize how I look in this alley.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just w-w-want to help." I raise my hands up in surrender.

I take a step forward.

She scoots back.

"I don't need help."

Two more steps. I'm at the sidewalk now. I drop to my knees. Her face is shadowed and dark, but the whites of her eyes glint. She's small. So small. I reach my hand out tentatively. She looks at it. Then at my face. Then back at my hand.

She takes it. I exhale sharply and pull us both up.

She looks at me and the only thing I have time to register is how pale pink her lips are before—

"It's Cullen!"

"Edward, wait!" They scream.

"S-s-sssorry," I force out before I turn and bolt.

* * *

**i'm writing this but no one's reading it oh well oh well oh well :(**


	8. Chapter 8

**BPOV**

* * *

It's been a long day. A total shit day, honestly.

Rose said that if I don't have a least three stories in by next week I'd be fired, even though I haven't been paid yet. Emmett tried to be sympathetic, but I know he was secretly pleased that Rose gave me a reason to get out of the house. I'm pretty sure I've been cock blocking him for about a month at this point.

I put on my best work clothes, which really aren't that impressive but still. For a minute, I felt like I could actually do this. I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and thought, _Damn, Bella, you're a working professional_. Well, that was eight hours and countless miles ago. I don't feel so professional anymore.

My day in a nutshell: Los Angeles public transportation, one broken heel, endless hours of standing in the sun outside of fancy restaurants, a drunken pass from a dirty homeless person.

It's nearly dark now. LA in the dark isn't exactly the best place to be. Anyone who's anyone is inside some fancy building, drinking and forgetting that they're in LA. I'm limping due to the missing heel, I feel a migraine growing, and I'm two minutes away from walking to the closest bus stop when I run into the paparazzi.

They're walking around in circles, all in black jackets with DLSRs hanging from their necks. Some of them chat with each other, some of them smoke. But they're here for a reason. They're waiting for someone.

I park myself at the side of the restaurant, carefully noting the name and the location. It's definitely in the binder.

I stay about five feet from the paparazzi and try to look unimportant. It's not very hard.

Thirty minutes later, the car pulls up. It's sleek and black, with windows tinted so thick there's no chance of seeing inside. The paparazzi jump into action, lining either side of the car. I can hardly see.

I hear the click of the door open. A man around Emmett's size walks out, bulky and strong. He pushes some of the paparazzi out of the way with one sweeping hand gesture. I lean to the side to get a better view, half of my body in the bushes and the other half on the sidewalk.

And then they start to scream.

"Edward Cullen!"

"Cullen!"

"Are we going to see you at the premiere, Edward?"

"Edward, look over here!"

"Any new women in your life, Edward?"

"To the left! Edward, to the left!"

My heartbeat jumps. Jackpot. I try to push around the paparazzi but they're large and boisterous. I glimpse a woman in a blue dress, but only for a moment. The large man and the woman move quickly to the door. I know he's there, too. Somehow, I can _feel _it.

But I never see him.

They're in the restaurant too fast. Another minute passes and even the paparazzi start to disperse. I have no photo, no story. So Edward Cullen went to a restaurant. Does that count? I'm hot with frustration. I can't stop the tears that grow in my eyes.

I'm a failure. I can't even do _this _stupid shit. I can't do anything.

I sink to the bushes, damp grass soaking through my sad excuse for a pencil skirt. It's so quiet here now with all the paparazzi gone. No cars pass on this side street. The only sound is the roar of the highway in the distance. I close my eyes and for just a moment allow myself some peace.

And then Rosalie calls.

I sigh and answer.

"Get anything today?" she asks. No 'hello.' Of course.

"No."

"You didn't see _anyone_? You're walking around LA, Bella. You're bound to seem someone."

"I saw Edward Cullen's bodyguard walk into a restaurant."

"Wait, was he there?"

"I don't know. I didn't see."

"Did you get a photo?"

"No."

She sighs.

"Alright, just get the name of the restaurant. I'll work with it."

"Okay."

"Bye."

I throw my phone back into my purse with a groan. That's it, then. Back to Emmett's couch.

I stand awkwardly on my single heel, stumbling down the sidewalk. Naturally, my other heel catches on a crack in the curb and then I'm falling, falling, falling straight into a puddle of sewer water.

At first, I don't register it. My eyes close. And then I start crying. And then I start cursing. And then I can't stop.

"Are you okay?" someone calls. I jump back, splashing further into the puddle. A shadowy figure emerges from the alley, tall and dark and menacing.

"Stay away from me." My voice sounds so weak and I hate it.

He steps closer. My muscles tighten. I can't run faster than him. I know I can't. My chin trembles.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just w-want to help." He holds his hands up in surrender. Under the streetlight, I can see his hair is copper red. His skin is pale.

"I don't need help." My heart is thundering in my chest. I don't know where to turn. I reach for my purse but it's a few feet away from me, lying in the middle of the road.

He kneels down on the sidewalk, reaching his hand forward. It trembles. His eyes are green, so green so green, and why do they make me feel sadder?

I take it, more for him than for me. I don't know why. It feels right.

"It's Cullen!" I hear the scream.

And then more screams and screams and screams and then he's gone.

The flashbulbs pop in my face and the questions start.


End file.
